#ldrlsp

Your private dorm is warm tonight.

That’s the first thing you notice as you settle deeper into your blankets, the soft glow of enchanted candles flickering lazily against the walls. Being Head Girl meant space—your own room, your own quiet—and you’d made it yours in every way that mattered.

A knitted throw draped over the end of your bed.

A small stack of books on your nightstand, organized but well-loved. A teacup, still warm, resting beside you. The dancing flame of lit candle fills the room with a vanilla scent.

Outside, the castle hums faintly with distant life—laughter echoing far away, music muffled through thick stone walls.

The Slug Club party.

You imagine the glittering dresses, the clinking of glasses, the smoke curling through the air, the loudness.

And then you look back down at your book.

You turn the page. You chose this.

-

The knock startles you more than it should. Not loud. Just… wrong.

Out of place in the quiet you’ve carefully built.

Three uneven taps. A pause. Then two more, heavier this time.

You blink toward the door, heart giving a small, confused thud.

No one visits you this late.

Another, impatient, knock.

“Now who could that be?” You whispered to yourself, as you slowly uncovered your bare legs from the soft blanket, your sock covered feet carried you to your door.

You hesitate for half a second before opening the door.

And then you’re face-to-face with your fellow head boy, Tom Riddle.

Composed, as always. Dark eyes sharp with quiet amusement, like he already knows how this is going to go.

“Good evening,” he says smoothly.

Your brows knit together.

“It’s nearly midnight, Tom.”

“I’m aware.”

There’s something in his tone—too calm, too certain—that immediately puts you on edge.

“What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he steps slightly to the side.

And the world shifts, because suddenly you see him.

Theodore Nott is leaning against the stone wall just behind Tom, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He looks… softer.

That’s the only word your brain can settle on, even as everything else about him suggests the opposite.

His tie is loosened, collar slightly open, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his wrists. His hair—normally neat in that careless, Slytherin way—is more disheveled now, like someone’s run their hands through it one too many times.

And his eyes—

They’re unfocused.

There’s a faint flush across his cheeks, and even from where you stand, you can smell it—smoke, alcohol, something bitter lingering in the air around him.

Your chest tightens.

“He’s drunk,” you say quietly.

“Yes,” Tom says. “And you’re helpful.”

Your eyes flicker towards tom, your brown eyes squinting at him.

“I declined for a reason.”

“And yet,” he gestures lightly toward Theo, “here we are.”

Your gaze flickers back to Theo.

He shifts slightly, like standing upright is becoming optional.

And then his eyes lift to find yours.

And something in your chest pulls tight.

“…you didn’t come,” he murmurs, his eyes made him look like a sad puppy.

Your chest tightens.

You hadn’t realized he’d notice. You hadn’t realized he’d care.

Tom clears his throat lightly.

“I’ll leave him with you.”

“Wait—”

But Tom is already moving down the stairs towards his dorm.

And just like that, it’s only you and him.

—

Your eyes travel back at Theo. He hasn’t looked away from you.

“…Unbelievable,” you whisper, though there’s no real bite to it.

There’s something unguarded in his expression now. Something loose and uncertain, like whatever usually holds him together has slipped just enough for you to see underneath.

“Can you walk?” you ask gently.

He blinks slowly, then moves his head to glance down at his feet before trailing back to your eyes.

“…probably.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Still, you step closer. Carefully. Gentle.

When you reach for him, he doesn’t resist. If anything—he leans into your touch.

His arm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than you expect, and for a second you have to adjust your footing just to stay steady.

“Okay,” you murmur, tightening your grip around his waist. “Careful—don’t fall, please, I’m not equipped for that.”

A soft huff of laughter brushes past your ear.

“You worry a lot.”

“I have to,” you say. “Someone has to.”

-

You guide him sit on the edge of your bed, steadying him as he sways slightly.

“There,” you say softly. “Stay.”

“Bossy,” he murmurs.

“Drunk,” you counter.

He doesn’t argue.

You move away just long enough to grab a glass of water, your fingers brushing the rim of your teacup as you pass it. The warmth has faded slightly, but it’s still comforting.

When you turn back, he’s watching you.

Not in the usual distant way. Not guarded or annoyed. Just… watching.

You hand him the glass.

“Drink it Theo.”

He takes it, slower than usual, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second. He looks down at the glass before taking a slow sip.

“You didn’t come,” he says again.

Your chest tightens slightly.

“I know.”

“Slughorn invited you.”

“I’m aware, Theo.”

“…why not?”

There’s no judgment in it. Just quiet curiosity from the taller boy.

You hesitate for a moment, then shrug slightly.

“I don’t like those kinds of things.”

He looks up.

“How come?”

“They’re loud. And crowded. And…” you pause, searching for the right word. “Too much.”

His gaze lingers on you.

“I think you would’ve looked nice.”

Your heart skips.

“…Theo.”

“What?” he mumbles, like he doesn’t even realize what he said.

You shake your head, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re—” He pauses, his eyes looking you up and down before they find your eyes once more, “You’re beautiful.”

The room stills.

Your breath catches, fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of your pajama sleeve.

“Theo—”

“And I’m insane.”

The words fall quieter.

He leans back against your pillows, gaze drifting but still fixed on you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored.

“You read,” he continues, voice softer now, slower. “You stay here. You don’t… do any of that.”

His hand lifts vaguely, gesturing to everything he came from.

“And I do all of it.”

You step closer to your bed, “You’re not—”

“I ruin things y/n,” he murmurs, cutting you off, voice barely above a whisper. “People. Nights. Whatever I touch just—” he exhales shakily. “It doesn’t stay good.”

You’re right in front of him now.

Close enough to see the way his eyes flicker, the way something vulnerable cracks through the surface.

He goes quiet. His eyes lift to yours, and for once—there’s no distance, no walls, just something fragile. Something real.

“You’re not insane,” you say gently.

He frowns slightly, like he doesn’t believe you.

“I am.” He responds in a whisper, shaking his head at himself.

“You’re drunk,” you correct, softer this time. “And you’re overwhelmed.”

He doesn’t argue again.

“Lie down,” you murmur.

You don’t expect him to listen but he does.

You help him shift properly, guiding him back against the pillows, pulling the blanket over him and tucking it carefully around his shoulders without even thinking about it.

He watches you the whole time.

“…stay,” he murmurs.

“I’m right here Theodore,” you whisper.

And you are.

You sit beside him, just for a moment.

Your hand hesitates before brushing a stray curl away from his forehead.

You expect him to pull back but he doesn’t.

Instead—he leans into it, into your comforting touch.

Just barely.

But enough to make your breath catch.

The rough parchment finds you at dusk.

It slips beneath your door with a soft scrape, parchment worn at the edges, your owl grabbing it with its claws and drops it softly on your lap, glancing down you recognize your name written in a hand you’d recognize anywhere—slightly slanted, careful, as if each letter had been considered twice before touching ink.

You don’t breathe as you pick it up.

Newt.

Your fingers tremble just enough to break the seal.

I hope this reaches you safely…

I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important…

I need somewhere they won’t think to look. Somewhere safe—for them.

For me.

There’s no signature at the end, but there doesn’t need to be. You can see him in every hesitant curve of ink.

And just like that, you’re moving quick to help your Hogwarts friend.

—

He shouldn’t have written to you. Newt knows that now.

It replays in his mind over and over as he paces the small clearing, boots crunching softly against leaves, his lack of skill to be quiet. The suitcase never leaves his grip, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s holding it.

You had always been… more.

Smarter. Braver. The kind of person people relied on without hesitation. A true Ravenclaw.

And him?

He was the one people tolerated. Barely.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, curls already more unruly than usual.

“She won’t come,” he murmurs under his breath, more to convince himself than anything else. “And that’s—perfectly alright, really. It was a bit unreasonable and out of line to ask in the first place—”

The suitcase rattles slightly, a soft, questioning trill from inside. Newt immediately softens, crouching down.

“No, no—it’s alright. I’ll figure something out, I always do, don’t I?” A pause from the blonde haired Magizoologist, “…Eventually.”

A twig snaps somewhere around him.

He freezes and slowly stands, his wand halfway raised—

Crack.

The sound of Apparition splits the air.

Newt spins around, heart in his throat, and forgets how to breathe.

You’re standing there like something out of a memory he wasn’t meant to touch again.

Your hair slightly wind-tossed, chest rising and falling like you came in fast, eyes scanning him—quick, sharp, worried—before settling.

Relief floods your expression so openly it almost hurts to look at.

“Newt.” You spoke softly, gently rushing over to him.

It’s softer than he remembers. Warmer.

“…Y/n… You came,” he says, a little breathless, like the words weren’t meant to make it out.

You blink at him, like that wasn’t even a question.

“Of course I did.”

Another distant crack echoes through the trees.

Your head turns slightly, listening.

Then you step forward, closer, more certain.

“Are you hurt?” You asked, hands gently turning his face to side to check for any sign of injury.

He shakes his head quickly. “No—no, I’m alright, I just—”

“Good.” You nod once, decisive. “We’re leaving.”

You hold your hand out for him to take, he stares at it for half a second too long.

You raise a brow. “Newt?”

Right.

He adjusts his grip on the suitcase and takes your hand.

Your fingers are warm, a distant memory in his mind of when you’d drag him around back during your Hogwarts days.

You don’t hesitate—you never really did, even back then—and the moment your grip tightens, the world pulls apart.

—

When the world slows again, the forest is gone.

You’re somewhere else entirely. A familiar place for you, a different location for him.

Your home.

It’s hidden well—layers of protective charms woven so intricately he can practically feel the magic humming in the air. The space itself is warm, softly lit, filled with the quiet comfort of familiarity. A safe place for him and his animals.

Newt sways slightly as his feet hit the ground, still adjusting.

“You can let them out,” you say gently, already moving past him, shrugging off your coat. “There’s room. I made sure of it.”

“You… made sure?” he echoes, still catching up.

You glance back at him, something playful flickering for just a second.

“Newt, you once brought a baby Occamy into the Hogwarts library.”

He winces slightly. “That was one time.”

“It was three.”

“…Right.”

There’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

His chest does something strange at the sight.

He kneels quickly, opening the suitcase, slipping into that familiar rhythm—checking on each creature, murmuring softly, grounding himself in them.

You don’t interrupt. You just… stay, nearby, in case he needed help.

Leaning lightly against the doorway, watching the suitcase with something quieter than curiosity.

Something softer.

When he finally climbs back out, brushing his hands off, you’re still there.

Waiting.

“Tea?” you offer.

It’s so simple. So normal.

“Yes, please.” He softly responded.

—

It’s only once he’s seated, a warm cup in his hands, that the silence settles into something heavier.

Newt stares down at the steam curling from his tea, honey filling in his nostrils.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he admits quietly.

You pause mid-sip.

“What?” You spoke, glancing up to try and meet his gaze.

“I mean—” He fumbles slightly, words tripping over each other. “You didn’t respond to the letter and I thought perhaps it didn’t reach you, or that you were busy, or that you—”

“That I wouldn’t help?” you finish.

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to.

You set your cup down gently.

There’s something almost amused in your expression, but softer. Warmer.

“You really thought that?”

Newt shifts, suddenly very aware of how foolish it sounds now that you’re here.

“I didn’t want to assume.”

You shake your head, stepping closer.

“For someone so good with creatures, you’re terrible with people.”

He lets out a small, embarrassed huff, “That’s been said before.”

You stop right in front of him.

Close enough that he has to look up to meet your eyes.

And when he does, whatever uncertainty was left in him quiets.

Because there’s nothing hesitant about you. Nothing unsure.

“If you call for me,” you say, voice steady and certain, “you know I’ll run.”

The words settle between you, simple and absolute.

Newt blinks, something unspoken flickering across his face.

“You… would?”

You tilt your head slightly, a soft smile forming.

“I apparated into a forest full of people hunting you, didn’t I?”

“…Yes,” he says faintly.

“Then I think that answers it.”

There’s a quiet moment.

The kind that stretches, but doesn’t feel uncomfortable. The type the two of you have grown so accustomed to.

Newt lets out a small breath, something in his shoulders finally loosening.

“…I’m really glad it was you,” he admits, almost too quiet to hear.

Your expression softens in a way he doesn’t quite know how to look at for too long, his gaze slowly dropping to your floor.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”

Neither of you moves right away.

You’re still standing close. He’s still looking down.

And for a second—just a second—it feels like something is about to happen.

Something new.

Something neither of you quite knows how to name yet.

But instead, you reach over and gently nudge his teacup back toward him.

“Drink,” you say lightly. “You look like you’ve been living off bad decisions.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the moment easing—but not disappearing.

“Thank you, for all of this.”

You smile, stepping back just enough. “Of course Newt, you’re my friend.”

As he finally takes a sip, warmth spreading through him in more ways than one, Newt realizes something he probably should have understood a long time ago—

Running to you had never really been a risk.

The air in the holding cell was thick with the smell of sweat, blood and vomit. Somewhere down the hall a metal door slammed, the sound echoing through the station like a gunshot. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make everything feel unreal.

Bob Reynolds sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee pulled up, arms draped over it. His knuckles were scraped up, dried blood crusted along the skin from when the cop shoved him against the cruiser. His uncut hair hung messy over his eyes, and he looked exhausted in the way someone does after weeks without proper sleep.

Across the small cell, you leaned against the metal bench, staring at the barred window high in the wall. Rain streaked the glass, turning the outside lights into blurry gold smears.

Neither of you had said anything for a while, finally Bob let out a breath.

“Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, “that could’ve gone better.”

You glanced over at him.

“That’s your summary of the situation, Robert?”

“We did get arrested,” he said. “I feel like that’s worth mentioning.”

You snorted softly, shaking your head.

A year ago you wouldn’t have imagined being here. Then again, a year ago you hadn’t met Bob.

⸻

You first saw him outside a gas station in Tampa, sometime after midnight. The Florida humidity hung heavy in the air and the neon sign flickered above the door.

He was crouched by a vending machine with a screwdriver, trying to pry open the front panel.

You leaned against the brick wall nearby, watching him struggle for a solid thirty seconds before speaking.

“You’re doing that wrong.” Your floridian accent cutting into the night. (Idk if people from Florida have accents but we’re going with it mmkay?)

Bob jumped slightly and whipped around.

His eyes were bloodshot, pupils huge, like he’d been up for days. “What?”

You pointed lazily at the machine.

“If you tilt it sideways it drops the candy bars.”

He squinted at you suspiciously.

“You serious?”

You walked over, shoved the machine just enough for gravity to do its thing.

Three candy bars dropped into the tray.

Bob stared down at them like you’d just performed a magic trick, a minuted past before he burst out laughing.

“You’re kidding me, it’s that easy?”

You grabbed one of the candy bars and tore it open.

“Consider it payment for the lesson.”

He watched you take a bite, still smiling.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Always.”

Bob pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and shook it slightly.

“You do anything… else?”

You raised an eyebrow in question at the mysterious package.

“What kind of else?”

“Party kind of else.”

You took the bag, looking closer at the powder inside, and grinned.

“Oh.”

⸻

From that night on you and Bob were rarely apart.

At first it was just small things. Pills from a guy Bob knew. Little baggies sold outside clubs or passed around at house parties. Easy money.

Bob had a way of talking to people that made them trust him instantly. Even when he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days.

Which was usually true.

You spent nights riding around Florida in whatever car Bob managed to borrow or steal that week. Windows down, music loud, passing a lighter back and forth while the highway stretched endlessly ahead of you.

The drugs made everything feel bigger.

Brighter.

Faster.

You’d sit on the hood of some random car in a random abandoned parking lot at 3 AM while Bob talked about the future like it was some distant thing neither of you had to worry about yet.

“We’re just surviving,” he’d say.

And somehow you believed him.

⸻

“Remember the motel?” Bob said suddenly from the floor of the cell.

You looked away from the wall next to you, pulled back into the present.

“What motel?”

“The one with the pink door,” he said. “Near the beach.”

You groaned softly, “Oh my god.”

Bob grinned faintly.

“You tried to microwave ramen with no water.”

“I was high,” you protested.

“You almost burned the room down.”

You pointed at him. “ALMOST. Plus, you were the one who brought the blow.”

“Okay, fair.”

The memory hung in the air between you.

A shitty motel room with peeling wallpaper. Powder spread across the bathroom counter. The two of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe while the microwave beeped angrily in the background.

Bob rubbed his face again now, the smile fading a little.

“God, we were a mess.”

You shrugged.

“I believe we still are.”

⸻

Things escalated slowly.

Like they always do.

Selling pills turned into selling powder. Powder turned into bigger deals. Bigger deals meant bigger risks.

Bob started talking about real money.

“We just need one good run,” he said one night while you two sat in the car outside a warehouse. “Then we’re set.”

“You’ve said that about the last four runs.”

“Yeah but this one’s different baby.”

You looked at him sideways.

“Why?”

“Because I have a good feeling.”

That should’ve been your warning sign.

Bob’s good feelings usually ended in police sirens.

⸻

Which is exactly what happened tonight.

The warehouse job was supposed to be easy.

Break the back door. Grab electronics. Sell them across state line.

Except someone tipped the cops off.

You were halfway across the parking lot with a stolen laptop bag when the red and blue lights exploded behind you.

“RUN Y/N!” Bob shouted.

You ran.

Boot covered feet pounding against asphalt, lungs burning, adrenaline cutting through every trace of drugs in your system.

For a second you thought you might actually make it.

Then a cop tackled Bob. And you had skidded to a stop.

Just for a second, but that second was enough.

⸻

Now the two of you sat in a holding cell with nothing but time.

Bob looked over at you, “You regret it?” he asked quietly.

“Attempting to steal the goods?”

“Yeah. Well all of it, meeting me, selling and doing drugs etcetera.”

You thought about the past year.

The motel rooms. The late-night drives. The cheap liquor. The high highs and the awful crashes afterward. The chaos.

And Bob.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

He blinked.

“Seriously?”

You leaned back against the wall beside him.

“Robert, we’ve done some incredibly stupid stuff.”

“Understatement.”

“But…” you paused. “It was never boring, it was always fun and exciting.”

Bob let out a small laugh, “That’s true.”

Silence settled again for a moment.

Then Bob spoke softly.

“I always thought I’d end up like this.”

You looked over at him, your eyes softened.

“Like what?”

“Locked up somewhere. Screwed my life up before it even started.”

You nudged his shoulder.

“You’re twenty-something, Bob. Your life barely started.”

“Feels over sometimes.”

You studied his face.

For all his jokes and reckless confidence, Bob carried this quiet weight inside him. Like he was waiting for the world to finally confirm what he already believed about himself.

That he was broken.

You reached over and laced your fingers through his.

He looked down at your intertwined hands.

“What are you doing?”

You shrugged, “Comforting my criminal partner.”

Bob chuckled weakly.

“Bonnie and Clyde, huh?”

“Something like that.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, staring at wall outside your cell doors.

Then you said softly, “Prison isn’t nothing to me… if you’ll be by my side.”

Bob turned toward you slowly.

“You mean that?”

You squeezed his hand.

“We survived Florida, drug deals, motel fires, and your terrible driving.”

“Hey—”

“I think we can survive this.”

Bob stared at you for a long moment, then his crooked smile returned.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah… I think we can.”

Outside the small barred window, rain kept falling against the glass.

The Great Hall was always loud at breakfast.

Plates clattered, chairs scraped, and dozens of conversations overlapped beneath the enchanted ceiling glowing with pale morning light.

You hated mornings.

Sunlight didn’t burn you the way old stories claimed, but it made your skin feel tight and wrong—like something inside you wanted to retreat deeper into the shadows. So you stayed near the end of the table where the light didn’t reach as strongly.

Your fingers rested loosely around a goblet of pumpkin juice but you didn’t drink it.

You had learned very quickly that Hogwarts did not exactly provide what you actually needed.

Your senses stretched lazily across the room.

Dozens of heartbeats.

Fast ones from excited first-years.

Slow steady ones from older students half asleep.

The castle was alive with them.

Usually you ignored the noise.

But one heartbeat kept catching your attention.

Calm.

Measured.

Different somehow.

Your eyes lifted toward the Gryffindor table.

Four boys sat together, exactly where they always were.

James Potter was talking animatedly, hands flying as he told some ridiculous story.

Beside him, Sirius Black leaned forward on the long table, his elbows resting on top of them.

Peter Pettigrew laughed too loudly at something that probably wasn’t that funny.

And next to them—

Remus Lupin.

Remus Lupin wasn’t speaking. He was watching. Listening.

A book rested beside his plate, one finger marking the page like he planned to return to it the moment breakfast ended.

You looked away quickly.

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop your hearing from catching something else.

Your name.

“…she’s odd,” Sirius was saying quietly.

“Not odd,” James replied. “Just quiet.”

Remus spoke then.

His voice was calm.

“Maybe she just prefers being left alone.”

Your grip tightened slightly around the goblet.

For some reason that made your chest feel strange.

You stood abruptly, ignoring the food still on your plate, and left the hall before anyone could notice you staring.

⸻

The library that evening was quiet.

Moonlight spilled through tall windows, painting pale shapes across the floor between towering shelves.

You preferred the castle at night.

Fewer people.

Fewer heartbeats.

Less temptation.

You sat at a long wooden table pretending to read.

Your senses were focused somewhere else entirely.

Footsteps approached the library door.

Light, familiar.

You didn’t look up.

“Mind if I sit?”

Of course.

You sighed internally before lifting your eyes.

Remus stood there holding two books.

“You already sat here yesterday,” you said.

His mouth twitched slightly, “So I did.”

He waited. You hesitated. Then gestured toward the chair.

Remus sat across from you.

For several minutes neither of you spoke.

You forced yourself to stare at the book in front of you.

But concentration was impossible when you could hear his heartbeat clearly.

Steady.

Warm.

Alive.

“You’re new here,” Remus said eventually.

“Yes.”

“Transfer student?”

You nodded.

Remus watched you quietly.

“You don’t come to meals often.”

“I eat.”

“I’m sure you do.”

The calm tone in his voice made your jaw tighten.

You closed your book.

“You’re very curious.”

Remus shook his head.

“Not curious.”

“Then what?”

“Observant.”

You leaned forward slightly.

“And what exactly have you observed?”

Remus hesitated.

Then said quietly,

“You don’t breathe very often.”

The room felt suddenly very still.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

“And what does that mean?”

Remus studied your face carefully.

“I’m not sure yet.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then he added gently,

“But whatever it is…”

His voice softened.

“I don’t think it makes you dangerous.”

You stared at him.

Most people would have reacted very differently.

Fear.

Disgust.

Suspicion.

But Remus John Lupin only looked thoughtful.

And somehow that unsettled you more.

⸻

For the next few days, you avoided him.

Not dramatically.

You simply made sure you were never in the same room for long.

Unfortunately Hogwarts was enormous—and Remus somehow kept appearing everywhere.

Across the Great Hall.

In the corridor after Charms.

In the library again.

Always watching quietly.

Always noticing.

It made your nerves burn.

Eventually you decided to confront him.

⸻

The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty that evening.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth.

Most students had already gone upstairs.

Except one.

Remus sat alone in an armchair reading.

You stood outside the portrait hole listening.

His heartbeat echoed clearly in your ears.

Slow.

Calm.

You whisper the password to the portrait, causing it to open.

Remus looked up immediately.

You crossed the room before you could change your mind.

“What do you want?”

Remus blinked.

“That’s a very direct greeting.”

“Stop watching me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

Your voice dropped lower.

“You keep appearing everywhere I go.”

Remus closed his book.

“I live here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Silence stretched between you.

Your hearing picked up the rush of blood through his veins.

It made your throat ache.

Remus tilted his head slightly.

“You’re nervous.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

You stepped closer.

“Then stop messing with me.”

Remus frowned.

“I’m not messing with you.”

“You’re asking questions.”

“Because things don’t add up y/n.”

Your jaw tightened. Of course they didn’t.

You could hear everything. Every heartbeat. Every whisper. Even the faint brush of his thoughts.

Not words exactly, just feelings.

You looked away.

“Why do you care?” you asked quietly.

Remus answered softly.

“Because you look like someone who’s been hiding for a long time.”

Your fingers curled.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Remus met your eyes.

“You hear things other people don’t.”

Your breath caught.

“You barely breathe.”

You stepped back.

“Stop.”

“You move silently.”

Another step.

“And you always sit in the shadows.”

Your voice trembled slightly.

“Stop it Lupin.”

Remus spoke very quietly.

“You’re a vampire.”

The word hung in the air.

Your instincts screamed at you.

Run.

You turned toward the portrait hole.

“Wait.” Remus stood quickly. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“That’s not how this works,” you whispered.

“People always say that.”

“I mean it.”

You didn’t turn around.

“You should be afraid.” You spoke out loud.

“I’m not.” Remus responded with that soft voice of his.

You slowly faced him again.

“Why not?”

Remus exhaled softly.

“Because I have a secret too.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

“What secret?”

He looked toward the fire for a moment.

“Once a month,” he said quietly, “I turn into something people are very afraid of.”

Understanding dawned slowly. The scars. The howling. The way he and the three boys he hangs out with disappear for a week.

“You’re—”

Remus nodded once.

“A werewolf.”

The words settled heavily between you.

Two “monsters” standing across from each other in the warm glow of the common room fire.

You studied him carefully.

“You didn’t run when you figured out my secret,” you said.

Remus smiled faintly.

“No.”

Your voice softened without you meaning it to.

“I believe that you see me for who I am.”

Remus held your gaze.

Then he nodded slowly.

“I think you see me too.”

For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts—

You didn’t feel like running.

And somehow that felt more frightening… and more comforting… than anything else.

part of the Lana Del Rey - Love Songs , Playlist

The music was too loud.

That was the first thing you thought whenever you watched one of Steve’s USO shows.

Too bright, too polished, too full of cheering strangers who only knew the version of him printed on posters. The broad shoulders. The perfect smile. The shining uniform. Captain America as an idea.

Not the boy who used to cough into his sleeve in the cold, the boy who sketched in the margins of newspapers, or the boy who once offered you the last half of his sandwich when he barely had enough for himself.

Not your Steve.

You stood near the side of the stage, hands clasped in front of your dress, watching him bow dramatically to another screaming crowd.

He caught your eye for half a second.

And smiled differently.

Softer, real and loving.

Your heart did the same foolish thing it had done for years.

-

By the time the audience was gone and the dancers had disappeared backstage, the hall felt like another world entirely.

The lights had been dimmed to a golden hush. Somewhere in the distance, a record crackled softly. Glitter still shimmered across the stage floor, forgotten remnants of costumes already packed away.

And in the middle of it all, Steve held you close.

You swayed together in the empty space, moving slowly to music meant for no one else.

His hand rested at your waist with such careful reverence it made your chest ache, as though some part of him still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you there.

Your arms circled his neck.

He was larger now… stronger.

Everything they had wanted him to become.

But when he looked at you, he was still Stevie.

Still the boy who blushed if your fingers brushed his.

Still the boy who got flustered when you stood too near.

Still yours.

“You were wonderful tonight,” you murmured, unable to resist.

He blushed instantly. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting. I counted at least twenty girls screaming your name.”

“Yeah,” he said, drawing you a little closer. “But only one of them matters.”

Your breath caught.

Even now, after he’d changed, after the serum and the fame and the spotlight, he could still surprise you.

You lowered your gaze for a moment, suddenly shy.

The song drifted around you like a secret.

Then, quietly, before you could stop yourself, you asked the question that has been on your mind, “Stevie… would you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?”

He stopped moving just enough to tilt your chin up.

There was no hesitation in him.

No confusion. Only certainty.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Of course I would.”

Your eyes stung unexpectedly.

He smiled and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’d love you when we’re old and grey and arguing over the radio on the porch.”

You laughed through the tears threatening to rise.

“And if I’m grumpy?”

“You already are.”

You gasped, smacking his chest playfully, “Steven Grant Rogers.”

He grinned.

Then he kissed you for the first time under dim stage lights and fading music, with the whole world waiting outside and neither of you caring.

-

The world changed anyway.

War took what it wanted.

Time took the rest.

And Steve Rogers fell into the ice, while you…. you had lived your life, alone.

-

When he woke, nothing felt right.

New York City was louder, brighter, and busier.

People rushed past with glowing boxes in their hands and empty urgency in their eyes. Streets he had once memorized had vanished beneath towers of steel and glass.

Everyone he had loved belonged to history.

Until they didn’t.

The file had been thin. Inside contained a name, a picture, and history and the address that stuck out like a sore thumb.

Current residence: assisted living.

Steve had stared at the paper so long Natasha eventually plucked it from his hands, pressed it back into his chest, and told him to go.

So he did.

-

The retirement home smelled like honey and polished wood.

His heartbeat hadn’t steadied since the ride over.

What if it wasn’t really you?

What if it was?

What if you hated him for disappearing?

What if you’d forgotten him entirely?

A nurse guided him down the hall and stopped outside a half-open door.

“She’s been expecting you,” she said gently.

Steve froze.

Then stepped inside.

You were sitting by the window with a blanket over your knees, a book in your lap and the glowing sun covering your skin.

You were older, your hair silver at the temples. Fine lines at the corners of your eyes. Hands softer with age.

But you, were still you.

You looked up.

And smiled like he’d only been gone a week.

“There you are, Stevie.”

His heart shuttered and his breath staggered.

He crossed white and black tiles in three desperate strides and immediately dropped to his knees beside your chair.

Your trembling hands reached up to move his hair, “My handsome boy,” you whispered.

Steve laughed once, choked and wet, and gently grasped you hands guiding them to his lips as he presses a soft kiss to them.

“I’m late.” He managed to choke out.

“Terribly late,” you replied. “Same as always.”

He bowed his head into your hand.

“I thought you’d have… more. A family. A husband. Children and grandchildren.

You were quiet for a moment.

Then you gave him a small smile, the same smile that made his 20 year old scrawny self melt.

“I had a good life.”

His eyes met yours.

“But no,” you said gently. “None of those things.”

Pain and hope tangled painfully in his chest.

“Why not?”

Your smile turned wistful.

“I suppose I was waiting for someone to finish our dance.”

The room fell silent.

Steve looked away towards the window, overcome by every lost year standing between you.

You saved him from drowning in it, just as you always had.

“Stevie.”

He turned back immediately.

Your gaze was soft and certain.

“Do you still love me even though I’m no longer young and beautiful?”

His throat tightened.

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles with reverence.

“You are still beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely. “And i will always love you, always..”

Tears shimmered in your eyes.

Good,” you said. “I wanted to hear it again.

-

Unfortunately Steve had lost you once more, but this time it was peaceful for you.

Only a quiet hospital room, your hand in his, and a final breath so gentle it somehow hurt more.

Steve stayed beside you long after the room went still and the line on the monitor stayed straight.

And for the first time in nearly a hundred years, he didn’t know who he was meant to be next.

-

Then came the stones. The mission.

The chance to put everything back where it belonged.

One last job.

He returned each stone.

Each weapon that took away family from each other.

Each borrowed piece of time.

And then, standing in a world that was no longer asking anything of him, Steve made one selfish choice.

He went back to you.

Not the older version in the quiet room, or the one who’s breathing had stoped.

The younger version, the girl in the dance hall, the one who still had years ahead of her, the one who hadn’t had to wait alone, and the one who he had loved the most.

-

When the platform glowed to life, Sam stepped forward first.

But there was no old man waiting.

It was Steve. Still young. Still dressed like Captain America. Smiling with a peace none of them had ever seen on his face.

The only new thing about Steve, was the woman standing next to him who had her hand intertwined with his.

Young, radiant, and laughing softly.

Bruce blinked. “…How…who?”

Steve scratched the back of his neck.

“It’s complicated.”

Sam stared, then broke into a grin.

“You rewrote history for a woman?”

Steve squeezed your hand.

“For my woman, Sam.”

Warmth climbed your cheeks.

Then Steve looked past them.

“Buck.”

Bucky stopped dead.

His eyes moved from Steve, to you, then back again.

“You vanish for five minutes,” Bucky muttered, “and somehow come back married?”

“We never married,” you said quickly.

Steve glanced sideways at you, entirely smug.

“Not yet.” He snuck in.

You hit his arm.

Sam doubled over laughing.

Bucky just shook his head.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s definitely him.”

-

A few weeks later, sunlight filled your now shared apartment. Your dog, Isla, lay curled at your feet as you finished washing the dishes, the warm water running over your hands in a steady rhythm that almost made everything feel normal.

The sound of the front door opening and closing made both you and Isla perk up instantly. A second later, the two-year-old German Shepherd was already on her feet, tail thumping wildly as she rushed to greet the man who had saved her.

Steve.

You smiled before you even saw him.

“Hey,” you called softly.

He appeared a moment later, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake the weight of the world off with it. “Hey,” he said, voice lighter the second his eyes found you.

Isla nearly tackled him. He laughed under his breath, crouching down to scratch behind her ears like she was the best part of his day—and honestly, she probably was.

You leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment. “Long day?”

“Avengers meeting,” he answered, standing back up slowly. “Tony tried to turn it into a debate about shawarma again.”

That earned a soft laugh from you. “Sounds serious.”

“World-ending, apparently.” His eyes softened as they came back to you. “How was your day?”

“Quiet,” you said. “Just Isla being dramatic and me pretending I have my life together.”

He hummed like that was acceptable information, then crossed the room toward you.

You opened your arms without thinking.

He stepped into you immediately.

Warm. Solid. Safe.

But after a second, he gently pulled back just enough to rest his hands over your stomach.

Your breath caught softly.

His thumbs moved in a slow, careful circle over the small curve there, like he was still getting used to the idea that this was real—that you were real, that this little future between you was real.

“How are my girls doing?” he asked quietly.

You smiled down at him. “We’re good,.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, softer than anything the world ever saw from Captain America.

The room felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the sunlight.

For a moment, neither of you moved—just stayed there, like the world outside didn’t exist, like time wasn’t something trying to steal you both away anymore.

Then Steve leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Your heart softened instantly.

“I love you too, Stevie.”

The rain had softened into a light drizzle by the time Sentry finally let himself breathe again. The rooftop glimmered beneath the city lights, puddles reflecting gold every time the energy beneath his skin flickered gently instead of violently. Wind curled around the two of you in cold waves, but he stayed close this time, forehead still resting against yours like he’d forgotten how to pull away.

Your fingers remained tangled loosely in the damp strands of his hair.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Far below, traffic moved through the city in glowing rivers of white and red while thunder drifted farther into the distance. Sentry’s breathing had slowed enough now that you could feel each steady inhale against your lips, warm compared to the freezing rain collecting on his skin.

“You know,” you murmured softly, “normal people usually just buy weighted blankets.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

His voice almost disappeared beneath the thunder overhead and by your shirt.

“You left,” you said. “I was worried.”

“I wanted to be alone.”

You snorted, half because of the way he was clinging to you proving he didn’t want to be alone and half because… well he knows you’ll always worry about him, “That’s usually when I should worry most.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just vanish after a mission and sit dramatically on rooftops during thunderstorms.”

“That does sound kind of insane when you say it out loud.”

“It’s very brooding superhero of you.”

“You make me feel…” He paused, searching for the words. “Less loud.”

Your expression softened instantly. Because for someone like him, that probably meant everything.

Lightning flashed suddenly bright enough to bleach the rooftop white and for a second, the gold in his eyes glowed too intensely.

“You know what I think?” you whispered.

“What?”

“I think you need sleep. And maybe pancakes.”

He blinked once.

“Pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“I think you’ve earned breakfast food at illegal hours, you’re overwhelmed,” you said softly.

“No.” His voice sharpened instantly. “I’m dangerous.”

The wind screamed harder around the rooftop.

Sentry stared out over the city again, but his breathing had become noticeably uneven now, every inhale too fast and every exhale too restrained.

“You should go back to your room.”

“I’m not leaving you up here alone.”

His eyes shut tightly, his face turning to bury itself into your neck.

“You don’t understand what happens when I lose control.”

“You think I care about that right now?”

“You should.”

That snapped something in you immediately. You grabbed his face hard enough to force him to look at you. Rainwater dripped from your hair onto his suit while thunder rattled somewhere far below the clouds.

“You don’t get to decide what I’m afraid of,” you whispered fiercely.

“I’m crazy, baby…” he said finally, the words barely audible beneath the storm. “I need you to come here and save me.”

“You are never beating the dramatic allegations.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Your hand slid against his jaw gently, thumb brushing lingering rainwater from his cheek. He leaned into the touch immediately this time without hesitation, eyes slipping shut for half a second like affection itself exhausted him in the best way.

Then suddenly—

The ground disappeared beneath your body.

You let out a startled noise as Sentry lifted effortlessly into the air with you still in his arms, the rooftop dropping away below in seconds. Wind rushed around you instantly, colder and sharper this high up, and your hands grabbed onto him automatically while laughter burst from your chest in surprise.

“Sentry!”

“You said pancakes.”

“This is not the direction of pancakes!”

“It’s faster.”

The city stretched endlessly beneath you now, glowing gold and silver under the fading storm clouds. His arms stayed securely around you as he flew higher, one hand steady against your back while the other held your waist carefully like you were something precious.

You looked up at him breathlessly and slowly—carefully—he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“Thank you.” He whispered softly.

The night before he shipped out, Brooklyn smelled like rain and river water.

She found her fiancée, Bucky Barnes, waiting outside her building under the streetlamp, hands shoved in the pockets of his uniform jacket like he had been there for a while. The light caught in his dark hair and for a moment he just looked like the same boy she had grown up with — not a soldier about to be sent halfway across the world.

“You’re late,” he said when she reached him, though the smile on his face made it clear he didn’t mean it.

She shoved his shoulder lightly. “You’re the one leaving tomorrow and you’re worried about five minutes?”

“Five minutes with you matters.”

The teasing was easy, familiar. It had always been that way with them — like breathing. But tonight something heavy sat in the air between them, something neither of them wanted to name.

Tomorrow.

She fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket, smoothing it down just so she had something to do with her hands. “You’re going to write me, right?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Every chance I get.”

“Promise.”

“Promise.”

She wanted to believe that was enough. People made promises before war all the time. Some of them even kept them.

Still, her voice dropped quietly. “What if you don’t come back?”

The grin faded from his face, replaced by something softer. He reached up and cupped her cheek, thumb brushing beneath her eye like he was memorizing the shape of her face.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m serious, James.”

For a moment the confident soldier slipped and he just looked like Bucky again — the boy from Brooklyn who used to walk her home after school.

“I’ll come back.”

“You don’t know that.”

She could feel her chest tightening with every second the words stayed inside her, so she just said them before she lost the nerve.

“I will love you till the end of time.”

The words sounded bigger out loud than they had in her head.

Bucky blinked in surprise. Then a small laugh escaped him, not mocking — just overwhelmed.

“Till the end of time, huh?”

She nodded stubbornly. “Yeah.”

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“Well,” he murmured softly, “guess I better live that long.”

Then he kissed her like it was a promise.

—

Two years later the wind over the Alps howled like something alive.

The train roared through the mountains, metal grinding against the frozen tracks while snow whipped across the cars. Gunfire echoed through the night as Captain America fought beside Bucky on the roof of the speeding train.

HYDRA soldiers everywhere.

Bucky’s hands were numb from the cold, fingers barely responding as he tried to keep his balance on the slick metal surface. The wind was so strong it stole the breath from his lungs.

“Buck!” Steve shouted over the noise.

Bucky turned just as his boot slipped.

The railing was coated in ice.

His hand shot out to grab it, but his grip slid immediately.

For one horrible second he realized exactly what was happening.

The world tilted.

“BUCKY!”

Steve lunged forward, arm stretching desperately but he wasn’t quick enough.

And suddenly Bucky was falling.

The train thundered above him as the mountains rushed up to meet him. The cold air tore through his lungs and everything felt strangely quiet in his head.

Because the last thing that filled his mind wasn’t the war or the fall or the fear.

It was her.

Standing beneath a Brooklyn streetlamp.

Looking at him like he was the most important thing in the world as she said—

I will love you till the end of time.

Then the snow swallowed him.

—

Three weeks later someone knocked on her apartment door.

When she opened it, she found Bucky’s best friend whom she met a handful of times, in the hallway wearing a black suit.

Her stomach dropped immediately.

Because in his hands was a small box.

Folded over his arm was Bucky’s jacket.

For a moment she just stared at him, unable to make the pieces fit together.

“…Steve?”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. The silence said everything.

Her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

“No.”

Steve stepped forward quickly, steadying her before she collapsed. “I’m so sorry.”

Her hands trembled as she took the jacket from him, clutching it tightly to her chest. It still smelled faintly like him and that alone shattered whatever fragile control she had been holding onto.

“No,” she whispered again, shaking her head. “No, he promised—”

Steve’s voice was quiet and strained. “He fell from a train during a mission. I tried to grab him but I couldn’t—”

“Stop.”

The word came out sharp and broken at the same time.

Inside the box were Bucky’s dog tags, his knife, and a photograph of him in uniform.

Her fingers shook as she picked it up.

“I told him…” Her voice cracked so badly she had to try again. “I told him I’d love him till the end of time.”

Then the tears came, uncontrollable and violent as she collapsed into the chair with the photo clutched in her hands. Steve stood there helplessly while she cried, the weight of losing his best friend sitting heavy in his chest.

There was nothing either of them could say to fix it.

—

HYDRA found her months later.

They called it experimentation. Longevity trials. Variations of the serum.

Years blurred together into cold rooms, metal tables, and scientists writing notes while time stopped touching her.

Decades passed.

Everyone she had ever known disappeared.

Everyone except the ghost she carried in a small gold locket around her neck.

—

Nearly eighty years later she was leaving a small corner store in Brooklyn when she ran into someone walking the opposite direction.

Literally.

Her shoulder collided with a solid chest and she stumbled back slightly.

“Sorry—”

The apology died in her throat.

The man standing in front of her had dark hair, tired blue eyes, and a metal arm partially hidden beneath his jacket.

Bucky Barnes, the co-leader of the new avengers, looked just as shocked as she felt.

For several seconds neither of them spoke.

He was the first to find his voice.

“…Sorry.”

It sounded automatic, distracted. Like his brain hadn’t caught up yet.

Then his eyes focused properly on her face.

Everything about him went still.

It was subtle at first — the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his breath caught.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“No.”

She felt her heart slam against her ribs.

“James?”

Hearing his name in her voice seemed to shatter whatever wall he’d been holding up.

“You’re dead,” he said hoarsely.

“I thought you were.”

They stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, the city moving around them while eighty years of history crashed into the present.

Finally she said quietly, “Do you… want to come up? My apartment’s right there.”

He hesitated for a long moment before nodding.

Inside her apartment the silence felt heavier.

Bucky stood near the window while she set two cups of coffee on the table, though neither of them touched them.

“You didn’t age,” he said finally.

“Neither did you,” she replied softly, glancing at the metal arm.

He exhaled slowly. “HYDRA.”

“HYDRA,” she confirmed.

The explanation came in pieces after that. Experiments. Captivity. Decades of being moved between facilities. His own story came out rougher — fragments of missions he barely remembered and years stolen from him.

Eventually the conversation slowed until the room fell quiet again.

Bucky looked down at the floor for a moment before asking, “You married?”

The question caught her off guard.

“No.”

He nodded slightly, still not looking at her. “Kids?”

“No.”

Another pause stretched between them before he said quietly, “You should’ve. Had a whole life.”

She reached beneath her shirt and pulled out the gold chain resting against her skin.

The small locket glinted softly in the light.

When she opened it, the tiny photograph of him in his uniform was still tucked inside.

Bucky stared at it like it might disappear, his flesh hand reaching up to grab it.

Her voice was gentle but steady.

“I told you.”

He looked up, confusion flickering across his face.

Then she finished the sentence.

“I will love you till the end of time.”

For a moment he just stood there, like the words had knocked the air out of him.

Then he let out a shaky laugh that sounded dangerously close to breaking.

“Sweets… you waited eighty years?”

Her eyes shone with tears.

“I promised.”

That was when the distance between them finally disappeared, Bucky pulling her into his arms like he had spent decades searching for something he never thought he’d find again. He held her tightly, forehead pressed against her hair, breathing like he had just surfaced after drowning.

“I thought you died,” he whispered.

“I thought you did too.”

His voice cracked slightly when he admitted, “I’m not the same man I used to be.”

Her arms tightened around him.

“I know.”

“You still want me?”

She leaned back just enough to look at him, one hand resting over the locket at her chest.

“I told you, James Barnes.”

Her voice softened.

“I will love you till the end of time.”